Coming Home
by WerewolfDoctor
Summary: After Sherlock 'dies' John returns to the Army, and now Sherlock seems to be coming back from the dead and John's regiment is coming home at the same time.


I always wondered why Sherlock was surprised that I returned to the army when he had 'died'. After all, Sherlock always knew I was an adrenaline junky, he knew my shoulder had almost fully healed by the time he had 'died', and, indeed, thanks to him, my psychosomatic limp was gone. He knew that the reason I started following him around in the first place was because I missed the war. It would have been pretty easy to figure out that since he was (I had thought) dead, I needed something, not only to satisfy my craving for adrenaline, but also to help me move on. And it fulfilled both needs admirably.

Greg always said it was because Sherlock subconsciously wanted me to be waiting at home for him to return. He had received joint glares from Sherlock and me for that particular remark.

Back in the army I also rediscovered the comradeship that had been so vital to me before, that somehow I had almost forgotten living the civilian life. In the army you live, eat, fight, play and die together. You do everything together and you become everything to each other. You have to, because you rely on each other completely.

…

Our tour had finished and we wandered as a laughing, chatting group across the square, though I was keeping an eye out for Sherlock. Ever since Sherlock's 'miraculous' reappearance we had been communicating via email and text, which thankfully for him, had probably saved him a broken nose and black eye, since I had had time for the shock to wear off and I had come halfway to forgiving him.

Only halfway though.

The regiment seemed perfectly happy. I suppose being home from war would do that to you.

Sherlock may have relied entirely on reason when solving cases and deducing people's lives in a glance, which amazed and annoyed people in equal measure. He may have turned his nose up at pure instinct and feelings, but my soldier's instinct had saved mine, and others' lives on countless occasions, a half seen figure that doesn't register on the conscious level but registers fine on the subconscious level can save a life. Right then my subconscious was flashing red. The only problem was, I couldn't tell why.

We were in a crowded square, yes. A million opportunities for a veiled attacker, but all the people looked perfectly harmless, and before the little Sherlock in my head scoffed, I have enough experience to know when someone is concealing a weapon, or a trained fighter, _thank you very much_.

So, a sniper, it had to be. Plenty of high buildings, rooftops. Easy enough to find a location, but which one? Then I saw it, a lone figure in the window of an abandoned skyscraper. I was almost sure of it.

Then I saw his target.

Sherlock and Greg Lestrade were standing across the square. Sherlock had a look of hopeful, nervous remorse on his face, as though expecting that broken nose and black eye at any second. I almost fell over in shock. It was not an expression I ever expected to see on Sherlock's face. I was tempted to take a photo, but was immediately reminded of the sniper, whose intended victim would most likely _be_ Sherlock.

And so I ran. Pushed them out the way, and just in time. The bullet hit the wall where they had been just moments ago.

"You idiot," I muttered to Sherlock, "you didn't catch all of them."

Then, without thinking, I snapped back into Captain mode and started issuing orders to my regiment. They, like the good soldiers they were, snapped back into soldier mode and the hunt for the sniper was on. Then I pushed Sherlock and Greg into as good a cover as I could find in the square.

"Um," said Greg, who was obviously still shaken by being shot at and quite surprised at seeing affable John Watson in Captain mode, "you don't mind if I get the police involved do you?" he asked only half sarcastically.

"Fine. Just don't get in our way." It took me a moment to realise they were staring at me because it had been such a _Sherlock_ thing to say. Usually, I was the one telling Sherlock off for saying things like that, "Listen, Greg," I said, trying to calm down, "I may not be a genius, but snipers? It's my area of expertise. Police would be good, probably need to clear these civvies … civilians … people, but I literally have an army."

And for the first time since we had seen each other, the three of us grinned and Greg started making calls.

We didn't have our weapons, which made things more difficult, but it had the advantage that the sniper underestimated us for it, and of course, we also had the advantage of numbers. The sniper was quickly caught and subdued. Greg didn't even look surprised as Sherlock unashamedly presented us with the handcuffs he'd nicked.

Sherlock knelt down beside the sniper who was staying determinedly silent, "I'm good," Sherlock murmured, "in fact, I'm the best." One might expect rolled eyes or other signs of exasperation from Greg and myself and this display of arrogance, but we were far too used to it. If we rolled our eyes every time Sherlock was, well, _Sherlock_ we'd probably do serious damage to our eyes. "So how did you slip under my radar?" No answer. Sherlock glanced at me, the familiar light in his eyes and it was almost like he'd never died.

We had a case.


End file.
